


that hunger isn't mine

by Stabbsworth



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Graphic Descriptions of Eating Raw Meat, Horror Hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stabbsworth/pseuds/Stabbsworth
Summary: Hunger always wins out over common sense.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	that hunger isn't mine

Biting into the flesh of the cooked meat was only the start of it.

There had been a fine sort of frost on the ground this morning, and it marked the start of Winter's onslaught of snow and blizzards and ice hounds.

Speaking of ice hounds, the dreaded growls and barks and horrible noises had started up when he'd woken up this morning…

...with as little time wasted as possible, Wilson set about gathering the materials from the chests, rhythmically opening and shutting each one, and made himself some sort of armor in the form of a shirt, but made out of logs and fastened together with gratuitous amounts of rope and the will to survive whatever onslaught of bloodthirsty mutts would come.

This is something he's done countless times before, something he's died to countless times before and something that he hates doing, as with all those other times before.

It took a few hours to kill the lot of them, they'd eventually be back somewhen, maybe the same, maybe different. The rounds of hounds often differed in composition, how many of the ice ones were there, how many dropped valuable teeth, how many were experienced enough to know to bite when their newer brethren barked.

Much like bits and pieces of the Constant staying the same, yet different, somehow.

His stomach gnawed at him. That also stayed the same. Ever constant, a reminder that he was still here. And he still needed food.

Wilson sighed, using his spear for support as he rooted around the corpses of the overgrown beasts, cutting out good chunks of meat and seeing which teeth would be salvageable.

He found a few, and these could be used to make traps at some point. He'd have to dedicate some time and a lot of space for a whole field of these. Gosh, maybe he might be able to defeat the Deerclops with them.

A faint memory reminded him of the beast with one eye, and he tried to hold back a shudder.

Wilson returned to the camp, chilled and with the meat and teeth of the bastards in his backpack. He'd live to see another day, at the very least.

His vest was starting to fray. Perhaps hunting a Koalefant at some point, maybe tomorrow, would be something he'd try and partake in.

For now, though, he was content to relax within the confines of his camp. At least, until something else would inevitably come up. He stored some of the hunks of meat in the icebox for later, and took one back with him to the fire.

He cut a few bits of meat into chunks, then speared these bits onto a stick.

Sitting by the campfire and holding the shitty kabob over the flames with the assistance of a stick, he slowly rotated it until each chunk of meat was lightly charred.

It barely even looked edible, even from the viewpoint of someone that was forced to survive in a wilderness and someone that was used to scrounging up anything he could get in the realm of food.

Hunger won out over common sense.

Wilson gnawed at the meat (and inevitably burnt his mouth multiple times, ouch) as quickly as he could. The less he had to taste this stuff, the better, as far as he was concerned.

Then he laid down for a few minutes because this stuff (re: the monstrous kind of meat commonly known to the denizens of the Constant as 'that gross purple meat', 'inedible meat', 'purple pieces of crap' or 'monster meat') never agreed with him.

Maybe he should have done this later on in the day, because then he'd actually be able to go into the tent and sleep off the ensuing stomach ache and dizziness.

And he was currently laying on snow. Which really didn't help with keeping any warmth in. Very smart.

He sat up for a moment, attempting to ignore the way the world spun like someone doing cartwheels, and shakily weaved grass into a rope, then grass and the afforementioned rope into a straw roll, plonking it down and moving himself to lay on it. A little closer to the fire, but that would do.

Wilson curled up on his side, and shivered as the pain spread. (Gods, that hurt.) How much had he tired to bugger about with cooking and eating again?

He still had plenty of meat, maybe he could get a bit more down.

Hesitantly, he looked at the bloodied stick he was still holding on to. He'd forgotten why he was holding a stick at the moment, before he tossed it into the fire, watching the flames sputter. Then he stared at the large chunk of meat he'd left on the ground.

The rest of the meat haul he'd managed to salvage from the hounds was in the icebox.

Sitting up again, resolve strengthened, he staggered over, and took the meat into his hands, then began to try and rip the skin and… weird hair stuff off with his teeth.

It'd be easier if he cooked it, certainly, but the hunger and the prospect of continued survival won out over common sense.

He stood up again, feeling a bit of gristle in his mouth (eugh), then began to move closer to the fire. He stopped upon reaching the straw roll he'd placed down a few minutes ago, then sat down on it.

Tearing into the damn thing was a messy process. There was hair and skin and gristle and it tasted horrible. The purple liquid (blood, was it blood? oh gods) had splattered over his lip and cheek. He was fairly certain that some of the stuff had gotten onto his clothing, as well as an abominably large amount of hair that he had to spit out.

He didn't choke on any hair whatsoever. He absolutely didn't almost end up throwing up thanks to that.

Nothing about this was agreeing with him in the first place. The meat had a terrible texture, reminiscent of pork, and he hated pork unless it was ham or bacon. Far too chewy for his liking.

Wilson trembled and curled up on himself, chucking the rest of the meat into the fire. He'd gotten all he could out of it. Or, at least, all of the marginally-more-edible portions. He wasn't entirely certain if the shivering was due to the poisons that had to be in the meat or the cold, but he scooted a little closer to the fire just in case it was the latter.

The fire crackled, almost comfortingly.

**Author's Note:**

> so, i had a thought. what if the hounds have a Horror Hunger situation, and what if the poisons in hound meat temporarily stopped the stomach from sending the 'full' signals to the brain?
> 
> pro-tip: never let me write these things.


End file.
